


Trouble

by MercuryGray



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Historical Accuracy, Historical References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Shelby Family isn't what someone would call charitable. But charity begins at home, and a new settlement house in Small Heath (and the rather troublesome woman who runs it) may make them change their tune. Set between seasons 1 and 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One: Period Preparatory

The trouble began over Sunday dinner.

The Shelby family was never really what one would call 'domestic.' For various reasons, cherished familial standbys like evening meals, walks in the park, or charabanc trips to the shore were never given an opportunity to take root in the house on Watery Lane, leaving all five Shelby children firmly beyond the reach of Victorian respectability. Not, of course, that five children from Small Heath with a n’er-do-well for a father had much of a chance with Respectability anyway.

But Aunt Polly was determined that her brother's children would have some small semblance of family life.  And thus, the institution of Sunday Dinner. Almost as sacred as the almighty Family Meeting, it was a standing appointment none of them would break.

John, now married and with a family and wife of his own to do the cooking, was, naturally, excused from compulsory attendance, but his brothers, bound by their present bachelorhood, still trooped out of their rooms on Sunday nights for dinner at Aunt Polly's large, plain table. Nothing extravagant -- a single woman raising five children has no room in her housekeeping money for extravagance -- but good, plain food, and plenty of it for five growing children, or now, two grown (and one growing) men.

There was usually little talk at Sunday Dinner, those bits of news deemed important saved for Family Meeting or for the office, the next day. If a piece of information was thought to be of immediate use or entertainment, it might be brought out around dessert, or when the plates had been cleared for the after-dinner smoke. But tonight, quite in the middle of his bowl of stew and before anyone had even thought of pudding, Finn set his spoon down and cleared his throat in anticipation. "Wecklin's got a new tenant," he offered. "In that big old wreck on King Street."

His eldest brother, torn between the traditional silence of Sunday dinner and the desire for more data, was the first to speak. "D'we know who it is?" He asked, sounding outraged at the prospect of some outsider making inroads into Small Heath. Wecklin, a large local landowner, held the lease on more than several lodging houses and buildings in the area. The 'big old wreck,' as Finn had called it, was one of his less desirable properties, a storefront that had not been able to keep a tenant owing, perhaps, to the neighborhood's general tendency not to pay tradesmen.

"No-one from 'round here," Finn offered. "Bunch of women. Cleaning everything out this afternoon."

Arthur, not sure what to do with this information in the present moment, returned fuming to his stew, while Aunt Pol and Tommy considered the intelligence. "Did they say what they wanted it for?" Pol asked, laying her own spoon aside.

"Sounded like a school," Finn offered. "Brought in a load of books off a motorcar while I was watching."

"Prayer books?" Polly's voice was sharp with disdain. Religious though she was, she didn't hold at all with missionary sentiment, especially of what she called the 'paper-thin Protestant' variety.

"Didn't see," the youngest Shelby offered with a helpless shrug. His aunt glared at him, but said nothing, and turned her piercing, thoughtful look on her middle nephew, who had, as was his habit, said nothing during the whole exchange.

"We'll see the place tomorrow," Thomas offered thoughtfully from his end of the table, leaning laconically back in his chair; Finn's news had not interrupted his dinner as it had his brother's. Unlike his aunt, Thomas liked to consider his facts before jumping to conclusions, and unlike Arthur, he did not live in fear of anyone, up to and including pale-faced parsons, encroaching on his territory. "Maybe the young ladies need protection. They may not know it's a bad neighborhood."

He said this mainly to soothe Arthur, who seemed calmed at the thought of making a profit out of their new neighbors, but behind his calm gaze and the steady hands reaching for his matches and cigarettes, Thomas Shelby was still thinking. New tenants in Wecklin's wreck, when the storefront had been empty for ages. Mr. Wecklin didn't lease to just anyone, least of all local people -- didn't trust anyone. They must have shown themselves trustworthy, somehow. And they weren't running a shop -- there wasn't a market for books in Small Heath. A school, perhaps, as Finn suggested, but the wreck wasn't large enough for that. And he doubted the good, god-fearing people who started missions would have anything to do with Small Heath.

No use speculating now. As he'd said, they'd see the place tomorrow, and make a decision after a little more intelligence was gathered.

 

Like all the others on the street, the King Street storefront had a strong shine of coke-dust on its front windows where there was still glass, and a grimy sign that had at one time announced the name of some long-gone proprietor. Today, however, it distinguished itself from its peers by having not one, but two large lorries out front, from which a strange assortment of domestic equipment (several ranges, brooms, crates marked 'COOKING POTS') and school supplies (desks, chairs, blackboards) was being unloaded.

There were a few teamsters doing most of the heavy lifting, but the real leadership seemed to be coming from a small, determined knot of women, some carrying the smaller boxes inside, one reading from a list of packing cases, and another group directing the hanging of a freshly painted sign on the facade of the building, the words "Small Heath Settlement House" jumping off the facade in electric white.

"What's a settlement house, when it's at home?" Finn, who had come along for the walk, asked expectantly.

Tommy remembered reading about some such place in the newspaper, a large house in London where middle class women with no better occupation taught classes people didn't need and gave lectures on subjects no one had ever heard of. Not directly religious -- at least that would make Pol happy. "A lot of women where they don't belong," he said shortly, and slightly under his breath.

Loitering in the street watching the parade of supplies, it was quite a while before anyone took any notice of them. One of the women stepped outside to converse with the tall brunette directing the teamster traffic, and, looking across the street, noticed the two young men observing their front door.

"Can we help you?" she called, somewhat harshly, across the cobblestones.

Tommy disengaged himself from the wall and crossed the street, as if to say, _At least my mother taught me it's impolite to shout across streets_. "Good morning," he said, in what Arthur called his dangerous business voice, "I'd like to speak to the rent-holder, if that's possible?"

"And who's asking for her?' the shorter newcomer, who from the state of her apron had just been scrubbing floors, asked dismissively, hands on her hips. Her taller companion said nothing, content, it seemed, to observe her friend from behind the shelter of her clipboard.

"Thomas Shelby.  I'm a businessman in the neighborhood."

"No relation to the bookmaker, are you?" the small, opinionated one asked peevishly. The taller one looked on with the air of an owner still deciding whether to call off her dog, her gaze sliding watchfully between her companion and Thomas.

Thomas smiled. "Actually, I am the bookmaker."

"She's not here at the moment," the taller one spoke, finally, laying a hand on the other woman's arm. "Shall I have her call, when she's back?"

Thomas marveled at the sort of women who would ask ‘to call’, noting that both women spoke with what he would have labeled a posh accent. She was looking at him as though she expected him to refuse the invitation, and in earlier days he might have, but Thomas Shelby was legitimate now, and he liked to observe niceties. He also liked to surprise self-righteous, interfering spinsters who assumed the worst of him. "My card," he said pleasantly, pulling the thin slip of heavy, cream-colored card out of a special wallet he kept for the purpose. Thomas Shelby, Managing Director, No. 6 Watery Lane, Small Heath. He loved the look of surprise on the small woman's face for a moment and then said, with an air of superiority, "We are in the office most days until five," and then, collecting Finn from his position across the street, walked home.

"Well?" Finn asked, studying his older brother's eternally inscrutable face as they walked back to Watery Lane.

"We'll get plenty of noise from them," Tommy said sagely, once they were a safe distance away from the women at the front door. "But we'll give them a little bit of time to get settled before we give them any back," he added with a grin. "Only neighborly, isn't it?"

Finn grinned, and, dreaming up all manner of demonic tricks to be played on settlement house spinsters, followed his brother back to the office with a new spring in his step.

For a week, the storefront on King Street was quiet with preparations, and Thomas Shelby sent more eyes and ears to pick up whatever bits and pieces of information dropped off the lorries along with medical supplies, colored chalks, and cans of paint. He knew, now, that Wecklin had rented the storefront because the head of the group was an aristocrat with a fancy name, that they were interested mainly in providing art classes and reading groups and some kind of free clinic, which sounded like a bunch of nonsense for a neighborhood like this one, and that they were, as Finn's intelligence had first suggested, all women, most of them living in a sort of dormitory on the third floor, although some of them were also said to rent rooms nearby.

And then, nearly two weeks after Tommy and Finn had made their initial introduction, their call was returned.

It was a busy day at Shelby Brothers limited, the air buzzing with the anticipated results of two weeks of work talking up the latest offerings for Cheltenham and the other tracks.

Busy enough that a gap of strong silence would not go unnoticed in Thomas Shelby’s office. Yet go silent it did, when a person of unknown origin walked in the front door. Tommy, engrossed in his morning paper, did not immediately see the source of the silence, but it was enough to make him stop reading, even if he did not put down his paper, and hear his name invoked out in the front office.

“Is Mr. Thomas Shelby in the office?” It was a lady’s voice, upper class and polished.

“And who's asking?” Scudboat asked suspiciously.

"You may tell him that the Honorable Theodora Carteret is here to see him," the woman announced. If it was quiet before, the room stopped dead at that. An Honorable, in the offices of Shelby Brothers Limited? It beggared belief. And – what, no motor outside? And she'd _walked_ here, too.  "You will find I have an appointment," she added imperiously into the silence.

Thomas rose from his chair and walked over to the doorframe, leaving his jacket on the hook by the door. Let her take his shirtsleeves as she would. He was a Shelby, and he did as he pleased. The woman was in the middle of the room, her back turned towards him. A tall, beautiful back, Thomas was interested to see, in a long, expensive jacket, leading down to expensively silk-clad legs and beautiful, unscuffed shoes. Esme, over by the chalkboard, was almost radiant with envy. Everything about this woman screamed money -- Tommy was even willing to bet that her hat hadn't come from anywhere in England. "I'm Thomas Shelby," he announced into the still room, and, almost as one, the gazes in the office turned towards him, every pair of eyes wondering what he'd do next.

But the Honorable Theodora Carteret turned a little more slowly than the rest, and, seeing her face, Tommy had to blink away a bit of surprise -- it was the taller brunette with the clipboard. Hair immaculate, without the apron and away from the grimy shop front, she looked like a completely different person, more at home in the royal enclosure at Ascot than the backlanes of Birmingham. Her smile curled a little.

"Mr. Shelby," she said, offering him her hand as though meeting the heads of gambling firms were as natural to her as breathing. "Theodora Carteret. You left your card for me the other day. My apologies for the lateness of the call. We've been very busy over at the House." She said 'house' like it implied an Adam mansion, not a three-floor storefront off King Street.

"No apology needed," Tommy said, equally at home in his role as the implacable head of a respectable firm. She shook his hand like a man would, with a firm grip. _An iron fist in a velvet glove_ sprang to Tommy's mind, though her gloves were ivory-tanned kidskin. "My office is just this way." He held out an arm to escort her back to his little glass-walled cell, and, leaving the staff of Shelby Brothers Limited staring slackly at the vision that had just sat down across from their leader's desk, closed the door behind him, smiled briefly at the rest of the room and pulled the shades.

"You might have introduced yourself the other day," Tommy said, sitting down at his own desk and shuffling aside the morning's paper.

"I wouldn't have wanted to put you out," Theodora said pleasantly. "I understand you're a man who doesn't like surprises, Mr. Shelby. It wouldn't do, to be introduced to a peer in the street." Her smile curled a little devilishly.

 "Have you heard a lot about me, then?” Tommy asked, studying this woman and wondering in which of her posh schools she'd learned the art of doing business as he was pleased to do it.

"I make it a point to know all my neighbors, Mr. Shelby. My landlord, Mr. Wecklin, was most informative. And when so many of our clients at the House make a point of mentioning you, it was only fair that I return the compliment of a call from such a ...respected name."

Damn the woman. She had heard a lot about him, to make that comment about surprises, when she'd been trying to surprise him and his own since she walked in the door.

"I am glad I am found so," Tommy said, neither confirming nor denying the 'respect' given him by the rest of the neighborhood.

"Though, I must confess, I was amazed to hear from our residents that a man of your stature has such interest in our little organization."

"No more than anyone else on the street, I would think.”

“But no one else on the street has had a man sitting across the street every day watching our residents and asking questions,” Theodora said, her voice sweet and meaning anything but sweetness. Tommy was suddenly strongly and unpleasantly reminded of Aunt Pol.  "You insinuated you had something to talk over with me."

All business, then. Well, if that was the way she wanted to play. "I'm interested in making a donation to your work."

She smiled. "Really? Do tell. What sort of donation? Mischief? Mayhem? Rocks through windows? The harassment of our residents?"

 _So she does know us._ He had joked with Finn about getting trouble from the Settlement House, but Tommy was beginning to get the idea he may have underestimated the spinsters, or at least, this one. Well, if she could play dirty, then so could he. "Fifty pounds," he said promptly. That, at least, stopped her, though she was equally good at hiding her surprise.

"Most generous of you. I should not have thought philanthropy was in your line."

“Oh, we always like to give back to the neighborhood, Miss Carteret, as it's been so good to us and our business. Though usually, with a donation of that size, we look for...goods and services in kind. A mention of our name here and there." His gaze seized hers and the two of them sat for a moment in silent conversation. _If we give you this money, you will dance to the tune we give you._

"For such a generous offering, we would be glad to give you a tour of the House, Mr. Shelby." _I know what you want, and I will give you the endorsement of respectability if you are seen to endorse us._

"Most kind. We like to see where our money goes. Shall we come by on Friday?"

I'm afraid Friday would be terribly inconvenient, with the free clinic meeting then. Saturday, perhaps, but no sooner." She rose from the chair without more comment, and gathered up her handbag. "Well, this has been a most wonderful first meeting, Mr. Shelby, but I really must be getting back to the House. Lots to do."

Tommy rose and opened the door, clearing his throat at the rather poor imitation of work everyone had sprang back to. The gaze of everyone in the office was pointedly focused on the task at hand, even if money was not moving and pens did not dispense ink, every person oddly silent and straining to hear their lord and master.

"My staff and I shall look forward to seeing you on Saturday, then," Miss Carteret said with a smile, holding out a hand again.

"We will be very pleased to see the place," Tommy said, for the benefit of the rest of the room.

Business concluded, Theodora turned to the rest of the room, smiled politely and nodded to everyone's silent study of her, and stepped back out into the street, begging the pardon of Aunt Polly, who was just coming in.

Tommy, however, had not really seen any of the business at the door. He was too busy considering Theodora's last words, the way that she had nimbly stepped around his own invitation and replaced it with one of her own. She'd be ready by Thursday, if he said he'd be there Friday, and she'd stay ready if he decided to be late and hold out until Sunday. That last look of hers had been in deadly earnest, the eyes and smile that coldly and ever so seriously said _If you think you can run me, Thomas Shelby, you're **wrong.**_

"That woman," Aunt Pol observed knowledgeably, watching Miss Carteret stroll calmly down the lane, "will be trouble."

 _And don't I know it,_ Tommy observed to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me begin by saying that I’m not really sure what I’m doing here. (But do any of us really know what we’re doing, honestly?) I can’t find a history of Birmingham at six different libraries, ditto a good book on organized crime in England, ditto information on urban slum dwellings in the 20th century West Midlands, ditto a dozen other topics I will need to make this a well-informed story. And I’ve never been to Birmingham, so mea culpa to the good citizens of that city.
> 
> But after watching season one of Peaky Blinders, I had this sudden image of this upper-class woman who wanted to try and figure Tommy out, who was just as determined and just as stubborn and who knew a thing or two about having feelings and experiences that you don’t talk about, and then I had to find a way to get her into Small Heath, where she clearly didn’t belong and suddenly, Jane Addams and Hull House surfaced, and Small Heath Settlement House, the perfect way to put a strange fish in stranger water, appeared.
> 
> So here we are, testing the waters on a story I'm not even sure will work. There’s a two year gap between season one and season two. Say that this happens then.
> 
> If you enjoyed Theo and Tommy's little tete-a-tete, we'll see what we can do to keep the story going.


	2. Two: Reconnaissance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good customer likes to know what he’s buying, and a good soldier likes to know his his opponent before he goes into battle. A visit to Small Heath Settlement House is in order for the Shelby Family, and not everyone is excited about it.

Finn inspected the clean-collared, starch-stiffened version of himself in the pier-glass near the kitchen and grimaced.   


"What are we doing all this for, anyway?" he asked, making a half-hearted gesture to the rest of the room, which was filled with the rest of his family, lounging about the sitting room in similar states of dress, Tommy and Arthur's shirtfronts impressively white, Aunt Polly's hat sporting a particularly ostentatious feather and Esme's little beaded reticule clattering with self-importance as she straightened the children's collars.

"Because Tommy likes to give a nice first impression," Arthur drawled, only half-serious, from the love-seat, exchanging a knowledgeable glance with John, who also grinned, and then busied himself with helping Esme break up a bit of horseplay between two of his offspring, who were perilously close to disrupting their fine Sunday attire.

Tommy frowned briefly at both of his brothers and the minor scuffle, and strode over to the glass, standing behind Finn. The boy was getting tall -- tall enough to see himself and his brother in the little slip of mirror. When he spoke, it was for Finn's ears alone, the soft, serious voice that Tommy only used when he was in deadly earnest. "Because her brothers were officers with batsmen and china cups and tailored uniforms, and your brothers fought in the dirt of Flanders -- like real men. Her people sent gifts we couldn't use and empty promises that wouldn't feed us and got rich off of the suffering of our lot, and now they want to use that wealth to help us. We need to show her we don't need her kind of help at all."

Finn's eyes were glazed with an emotion he couldn't name, but he didn't show the recognition Tommy was seeking to explain.  He turned his brother away from the mirror and laid his hands on the youngest Shelby's shoulders, locking his brother's gaze in his own. "She'll look at you and she'll see Small Heath mud, Finn, even if you've got none on you. She thinks she's better than us," Tommy said strongly, "And I want to prove her wrong."

Overcome, Finn nodded vigorously, and turned quickly away so that his brother would not see the quiver in his cheek.

But Tommy saw everything, and he allowed himself a private smile before turning on the rest of his family and declaring "Right, we're off, then!" and leading the charge out the door.

Didn't they make a sight, driving (in two cars, Tommy's and John's, else they wouldn't have fit) down to King Street on a Saturday morning in their Sunday clothes. Small Heath knew the Shelby family to be smart dressers, but Sunday suits on Saturday morning beggared belief. Especially when both cars parked a respectful distance down the street from the Small Heath Settlement House, and walked to the door.

Usually, when paying a call, there would be the social niceties like ringing a bell or, as was more usually the case in Small Health, knocking on the door and waiting for an answer on the stoop. But there was no such luck here -- the door was already wide open to all comers, with a nicely lettered sign tacked to the door asking for all deliveries to be brought around the back. Arthur, who had lead the group out of the cars, pulled up short, glancing around at the rest of them with momentary confusion, and had to be prompted by Aunt Poll to actually head inside the building before their little parade turned into an unsightly, confused mess on the front steps. The Shelbys were never confused or caught out -- the Shelbys always had a plan, and it never involved milling on doorsteps like sheep without a shepherd.

The storefront was unrecognizable from the inside. The walls having been given what must have been their first new coat of paint in decades (a nice slate blue, bright but hard-wearing), and the front room was filled with light from the large front window. The counter had been re-stained and waxed to a tremendous shine, and the shelves behind it, once built for dry goods and cans, now held a wide variety of baby goods -- bottles, blankets, booties, and several stacks of pamphlets whose titles were not immediately visible. Along another wall of shelves a large variety of books peeked out into the room, several volumes sporting gilt letters along their spines. There was a hum of voices from a back room, and before any of the Shelbys could even think about going to investigate, a young woman emerged from the open doorway, all pleasant smiles.

"You must be Mr. Shelby," she said, shaking hands with Tommy, who by now had moved to the front of the group. "I'm Lydia Pritchard, one of the teachers here. Theo said we'd be expecting you this morning. We're so pleased that you've come to see our work."

It was not the welcome Tommy was expecting. At the very least he'd expected the short, irate woman from two weeks ago to chivvy them about, or for Miss Carteret herself to be waiting out front, ready to meet them in the road. The pause at the steps, the uncertain emptiness of the front room, and then, like a bolt out of the blue, Lydia Pritchard's open, helpful smile and enthusiastic handshake, however, were not anticipated. They were treating him like...well, like...

Damn that woman again. She'd put out the outrageously cheerful Lydia to treat him like the well-heeled businessman he attempted to be, in the hopes that she'd trip him up or catch him out. Just like her own calculated appearance in the offices of Shelby Brothers Limited, she wanted to test him, judge him, and see how he'd react.

"Theo is upstairs in her office, if you'll wait one moment," Lydia was saying. "If you'll wait here I can go fe-

"No need to fetch me, Lydia, I'm here. I heard them come in." The group turned as one to the tall, aristocratic figure of Theodora Carteret in the doorway, smiling enigmatically.  "Mr. Shelby," she said, holding her hand out for another handshake, firm and fair. "And this must be your family," she said, turning to the assembled multitude with a pleased smile.

Well, no time to brood now. Introductions were in order and he would not disappoint. "Miss Carteret, allow me to introduce my aunt, Polly Gray." There was another firm handshake for Polly, returned by an equally firm, searching look for Miss Carteret. "My older brother, Arthur Shelby." Arthur received a handshake as well, he who was so used to beautiful women wrapping themselves around the promise of power with groveling and simpering looks momentarily surprised by the woman's businesslike demeanor and absolutely no interest in catering to any of his whims. "My younger brother, John Shelby, and his wife, Esme, and his children. This is Jack, and Mabel, and Jasper, and the youngest is Martha."

The children, well-behaved more on account of the shock and strangeness of being in a new place than anything else, studied Theo with childish calculation, wondering, as their parents did, if this strange woman was friend or foe. Martha, only two, hid behind her stepmother's skirts and would not budge, but Jack (or John, Junior, when his father was very proud of him) teetered for a moment, and then, in parody of his adult minders, stuck out his hand to be shaken, his face grave. Theo's face broke into an unpredicted smile and she shook hands with all the gravitas afforded to his uncles. Inspired by their elder brother's example, Mabel and Jasper both stuck their hands out as well, though Jasper, at four, put his hand out palm up as though expecting a sweet, which detracted a little bit from the mock solemnity.

"A very great pleasure to meet you all," Theodora said, her voice oddly genuine. She paused, and then bent down. "Master Jasper, I think you will find something has fallen out of your pocket," she whispered, glancing tellingly at the floor, where one of Jasper's handkerchiefs, wrapped around a stub of obviously old toffee (judging by the bits of lint and debris attached) had landed as he had pulled his hand out of his pocket. Jasper swiped the handkerchief and its contents off the floor and shoved the whole mess back in his pocket, glancing first at Theo and then at his stepmother, who was glaring at him for doing something so undignified.

"And this is my youngest brother, Finn," Tommy finished, trying to move past the undeniable humanity of a four-year old filching sweets. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring them.

"I think we've met before," Theodora said, shaking hands with Finn as she had the others. Finn looked a little ashamed, and he colored behind his collar. Good manners prevented Miss Carteret from making any comment, and she breezed on, cool as anything.

“Well, we're so delighted you all could join us today. Shall we?”

She ushered them into the back room -- a classroom, albeit a very empty one, save for four or five exceptionally small students and their teacher at the front. "This is our nursery school class," Theodora Carteret explained, "All three through five year olds who don't yet go to the council school, to get them out of their mothers' way for three or four hours a day. They get breakfast here, and playtime, and we begin their reading lessons with them. There's a lot of wonderful research being done now about how children who are read to from an early age..."

 And thus began the Shelby family's lessons on the program of good works at Small Heath Settlement.

Tommy had not been an earnest student during his school days, short though they had been. Teachers routinely complained that he was a bright spark, knew his times tables and his grammar and could recite and copy with the best, that he would make a fine clerk someday if he could but settle down, stop running wild with those hooligan Gypsy uncles of his, and actually come to school. It was not that Thomas Shelby didn't want to learn, only that the topics covered in the local council school did not pique his interest. And why should they, when he could learn all he wanted about biology and physiology by watching his uncles exercise and care for their horses, physics in the weights and pulleys of the dockyards and mathematics problems by the score in the columns and grubby papers of the family betting books?

School may have held very little to interest Thomas Shelby as a child, but Small Heath Settlement House, itself one very large, very comprehensive school, held much to interest him now.  They were his streets and his people -- what should they want for? Apparently, quite a lot. There was the nursery school class and the free milk program, meant to salve the lot of Small Heath's overburdened mothers, the play groups that would keep their older brothers off the streets, the sewing and cooking circles that would help their older sisters gain employment as cooks and maids or erase deficiencies in their future careers as mothers, the study groups for all children that would fill in the gaps that their council school education left out and their parents could not help with, the reading circles for their fathers and much-older brothers where the social and political topics of the day would be discussed, and the free clinic that would put some distance between the nightmarish outbreaks of diphtheria, typhoid, and that awful 'flu.

All this from a storefront on King Street, staffed by ten or so women who'd never even played on streets like this and had never known what it was like not to be able to feed your children because milk was too expensive, rationing was in high favor, and Dad (and Dad's pay envelope) was away at the war.

It was astounding. Oh, patronizing, perhaps, for Aunt Polly, who hated to be found wrong in anything she did and who took all of the polite programs of the House as a criticism of her own housekeeping, and painfully domestic for Arthur and John, who spent much of the tour with their daydreams alternating between their pints in the Garrison, the promise of what was for dinner that evening, and (for Arthur) about the fine legs of Miss Carteret. But astounding, absolutely astounding, for Tommy. Here was another person who dared to dream big. And even if he hated to think that his people needed the kind of charity on offer, and Miss Carteret's officer-class background galled him, the sheer scope of it all was bloody impressive.

They ended their tour in the back room, a kind of canteen with long tables and benches where the nursery school breakfast could be served and the reading groups could meet and have tea. The kitchen at the end of the room was pressed into service for the Shelby family tea as a kind of cap to the end of the tour, and everyone settled in with their rummage sale teacups to take a load off their feet and process what they had just seen. Lydia Prichard joined them, as well as several of the other teachers and residents, coming in from their afternoon rounds of the neighborhood, jolly and welcoming and eager, so eager to meet their guests and thank them for coming.

Polly, in particular, was in a bad mood, and her eyes kept darting to the end of the room, where her nephew was standing observing the proceedings with his calm, practiced gaze. _She'll have a lot to say when we get home, for she won't speak here. Let her wait with it._

"So." Theo Carteret emerged at his elbow with two cups of strong, murky tea, demanding his attention in her single syllable. "Do we pass your muster, Mr. Shelby?"

"It is all very impressive," Tommy admitted, taking a cup from her with no intention of consuming it yet.

"But..." Miss Carteret let the single syllable out to taunt him and took a sip of her tea while she waited for his reply.

"My aunt was not pleased about some of the items offered by your clinic." A stack of pamphlets by Marie Stopes, somewhat hidden and never alluded to on tour, another pamphlet containing contents well known to veterans of the army's campaign against VDs, and the box of prophylactics that went with them.

"Only for married women, and only when they ask," she said promptly, knowing exactly what he referred to. "And some of our ex-soldiers, when identified by the clinic." Her voice told him this was not a battle Polly's opinions would win. Tommy went on.

"The reading room contained several books of a...reactionary nature." A quick review of the shelves revealed Marx, Engels, and the works of several Fabians that no self-respecting bookstore would stock. Freddie Thorne would be in heaven.

"Meant only for healthy public discussion of the issues. Records will be kept of who takes the books out, if the relevant authorities want to know." Theo studied him for a moment, and added judiciously, "The working classes in this country have a right to participate in their political processes and know how they work." Another sip, another calm, daring glance, another battle he would not win.

Well, if that was the way she was going to play. He had one more bullet in the chamber, and he meant to use it. "Your friend Miss Skinner seems to take very poorly to the idea of gambling."

The teacup came down and the smile became a little more brittle. Finally, a charge she could not deny. Madeline Skinner, the short shrill woman who had shouted at them on that first day out in the street, the sergeant-major to Theo Carteret's captain among the ranks of the settlement house, had not had very many nice words to say on the subject of gambling and bookmaking. Tommy had been afraid Aunt Polly would slap the younger woman as she went off, in the middle of a perfectly civil discussion about the free clinic and the nursery school breakfast, about how much better off the people of Small Heath would be if they saved their money from the bookies and spent it on their families. It was not an off-hand remark, either -- she had known to whom she was speaking and she went in with guns blazing with deliberation.

Yes, that had hurt, more than the feeble little faces in the schoolroom. How dare she say that they, Shelby Brothers, Limited, were taking food out of the mouths of innocent children and tempting their mothers, their fathers, their older siblings, away from the primrose path of righteousness and temperance by spending their little free coin on a flutter on the races! How dare she deny them their little bit of fun, their sole bright spark. Betting gave a man hope, gave him something to look forward to at the end of his working week! And if someone made money on his honest fun, well, who were they to judge that man? At least, that was what Tommy told himself sometimes. He wasn't sure anymore if it was true. But these were the lies, Tommy always reminded himself, that any man in any dubious business told himself. In this, even the war profiteer and the factory owner and, yes, the humble street-corner bookmaker were alike.

"I am not sure," Tommy began, taking a well-timed sip of his cooling tea, "that Shelby Brothers, Limited can, in good conscience, support an enterprise that has such views." He let that sink in, and took another leisurely sip for effect. Theodora Carteret's smile hadn't moved, though her eyes had clouded up with inward fighting spirit. Now he had her. "Indeed, we might be forced to be very...public about our disappointment in your organization."

The directress of Small Heath Settlement House considered the proposition, imagining the consequences of their 'public disappointment'...rocks through windows, dung thrown at their newly painted walls. "And if Miss Skinner were to find some way of... quieting her views?"

"We might be persuaded."

A long, even nod. "Any other requests?"  Now -- now! -- she was in retreat, and Tommy Shelby the soldier was going to let her give up whatever ground she wanted before he lead his last charge and routed her.

"No mentions made within these walls of the …. _perceived_ evils of gambling," he began, hiding any obvious smiles at his victory. "No direct harassment or shame for any one of our employees or anyone who frequents them. No mention of temperance or any attempts to make anyone sign the pledge. Bad for the business interests of the neighborhood, you know."

Miss Carteret considered all these things, her gaze drifting out across the canteen to the rest of the Shelbys at the far end of the room and her motley crew of teachers and nurses, chattering happily. Was she imagining the consequences of her decision, or was her gaze just following an invisible horizon on the back wall? Tommy drank more of his tea. He was a patient man. He would let her consider all she liked.

"Done." Her voice had the sharp finality of an auctioneer's, and the quickness of her answer and lack of resistance surprised him. Was she really going to make it that simple for him? Had he made it too simple? Was there room for more negotiations? Tommy's eye was caught by the glint of sunlight on dull gold near the room's doorway -- a list of the Settlement House's donors in gilt paint. Our Generous Patrons, the title read.

"We will, of course, be added to the wall?" It was both a statement and a question, just a little bit of defiance to add a little more sting to his victory. The name of a notorious family on the wonderful, morally white walls of her little charity school.

She fixed her gaze across the room with the same straight serious look she'd held in place for their entire negotiation. "For a hundred pounds, Mr. Shelby, we might even paint you in at the top of the list."

Tommy, after a moment of surprise at her daring, let out a laugh, causing everyone else in the room to turn. Theodora Carteret allowed herself a smile, as though she'd been in the middle of telling a joke. But she hadn't been joking, and that was why Tommy was laughing. It was, as parting shots go, a very bold one. She'd doubled the price on his bid for respectability without even batting an eyelash, prepared to let it all go up in smoke if he did not match her bet.

 Had she been planning this whole time to ask for more money, or had that been decided on the spot?

Did it matter?

Did he care?

"Who taught you to gamble, Miss Carteret?" Tommy asked, still chuckling at her cheek.

"My father. Though he usually loses," she added.

"A great friend to the bookmaker, then. You'll have to introduce me some day."

Now it was Miss Carteret's turn to laugh. "Only when I am that desperate for your good favor, Mr. Shelby," she said darkly. It was an unguarded remark, the kind one makes to a friend in whose company one feels comfortable and safe. _So we are to be friends, then. Or allies._ Tommy saved that thought for later. "Your aunt looks like she'd like to murder me," Theodora observed, hiding behind her tea cup once more.

"We should probably be going," Tommy agreed. "This has been a most instructive visit, Miss Carteret. We will look forward to a very long and...ah, productive relationship."

"It will be instructive for everyone, I am sure." They had reached the end of the room, and the rest of the family was rising from their seats. "Thank you all so much for coming today," Theodora said with her best matron smile firmly in place. "We so enjoyed having you visit."

"Yes, it was very interesting," Polly said hastily. "We really should be getting home soon, though, Thomas, the children..." she trailed off, content to leave the exact reasons for their departure vague.

"You must bring them along on our next outing, Mrs. Shelby," Theodora offered, directly to Esme, rather than Polly. "We are planning a trip to the countryside in a few months, to give some of our students a bit of fresh air. You would be more than welcome to join us, if you liked. We would be happy to have you."

"Yes, we will think about it," Polly said, again speaking for Esme, who looked as though she'd very much like a trip to the country. There was much scraping of chairs and a final glance around before Polly was packing them all out the door, desperate to leave.

"You shall be hearing from us directly, Miss Carteret," Tommy promised at the  front door as the rest of the family loaded themselves back into the cars, ignoring Jasper's whines for another biscuit. "One hundred pounds seems a very reasonable gift in these circumstances."

"We shall ready the gilt paint," Miss Carteret said with a smile, eliciting an amused smile from Tommy. She smiled with him, and then said, in a voice that seemed much different than the one she had used all morning, "It was very nice to meet your family, Mr. Shelby."

Tommy's face froze for a moment, and he contented himself with one last nod and a touch to his hat brim.

Polly, worse luck, had chosen the front seat, the better to bend his ear about whatever long litany of objections she was about to raise. But there were none; the whole ride home was completed in perfect silence from the front seat passenger, though Tommy could feel her beside him bristling with anger.

She did not say a word, in fact, until they reached home, and the coats had been hung up and the hats returned to their pegs. Tommy settled himself into his armchair with the afternoon paper and waited for Polly's patience to wear out.

The room emptied; Arthur said something about going to the Garrison, and Finn disappeared upstairs with his latest acquisition from the local two-penny library.

When everyone else had gone, Polly spoke. "What were you laughing about, back there?"

Tommy paused, letting the paper relax in his hands a little. Of all the questions his aunt might ask, he had not been expecting that one. He hadn't even thought she'd noticed, while they were standing alone in the back of the canteen with their tea. But trust Aunt Polly to retain her suspicion of her nephew and the power of a pretty face.

Was Theodora Carteret pretty? Tommy supposed she was. He'd been too busy trying to guess her game to give it much notice.

But that hadn't been Polly's question.

"She something funny," Tommy said simply, and returned to his paper. The matter was given no more discussion for the rest of the afternoon.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one of the things that struck me as I was rewatching Season One trying to pull more bits out for this story is that, the first time I watched this show, I was rooting for Grace, for some reason. Young girl, big city, trying to fight for truth, justice, and revenge. Found myself shouting at the TV set telling her not to get involved with Tommy, who was, as far as I was concerned, a very hot mess that did not need to complicate her life. Second time around, I find myself rooting for Tommy. Family guy, just trying to make his world work, just trying to support the various needs and wants of the people in his life. And my reading of his relationship with Grace changed. The first time, I legitimately thought she just found herself in love with him, but the second, I started wondering if she started cultivating the relationship and then she found she loved him despite her best efforts, and just went with it because she was too far in for any real feeling to make a difference. And that, that studied indifference, is why she leaves at the end without Tommy.
> 
> Anyway, the point of this monologue is that if we, as viewers, can come away from re-playing these events with two different readings, how must it play in Tommy’s head? Here’s a guy who, even before all of this, only really seems to trust his enemies, who at one point seems to know, as we do, that Grace is not really on his team. How must the idea of her keep him up at night? 
> 
> My thought is that Tommy likes Grace because she represents that golden ideal of moving up in the world, an idea that he seems to be striving towards during the first season. He makes a big deal of her posh accent and uses her voice as a cover during their trip to Cheltenham. At the end of episode five, you see the camera pan through the betting shop, with Tommy smiling like a king in the midst of his business. He also has a lot of time and a lot of respect for the careful planners and keen-minded characters of the series, the Aunt Pollys and Campbells, which exist in strong opposition to the characters that he has to mentally carry, like Arthur. Even after her betrayal, I think he still maintains a kind of respect for Grace (if not an outright love) because he recognizes and respects the skill with which she sold him out without him guessing a thing. He was outplayed, and that doesn’t happen often, and a mind like that is attractive to him. The things we love are bad for us, I guess.
> 
> If his attraction, then, is to intelligence and careful planning, and his respect is given even to those people he stands in opposition to, then we come to the character of Theodora, who exists to explore those concepts and how they play out. Like Grace, Theodora is on the outside of Tommy’s world, and totally different from the other women in his life, except maybe Polly. She represents a totally different standard of life and work that Tommy both despises and longs for at the same time. Now that Shelby Brothers is a legal business, Tommy is looking for a little more middle-class gilding on his life, and philanthropy is going to add that gilt. But Theodora Carteret is going to make him work a little for it.


	3. Three: Sortie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emperor likes to see the progress his empire makes, and Tommy Shelby is no different. Review the troops, sound the trumpets, flash a little imperial gold, and watch the world bend the knee. On a circuit around Small Heath, Tommy runs across his newest opponent and gets a little bit more opposition than he bargained for.

The Trouble: Chapter Three

* * *

Nothing more was said in the Shelby household about Small Heath Settlement House after their Sunday visit. The cheque, painstakingly filled out on Tommy's desk, was duly cashed, and the world went on much as it had before. King Street had its own eyes and ears, and they had all taken notice of the Shelbys' visit, and their silence on the subject afterwards. Their approval had been given.

And Shelby approval was just as good as law.

Tommy did not seek out the fruits of his endeavor. If Theodora Carteret said she would do a thing, then he rather thought she would. The officer class set a high standard on honor in its many forms, and he did not think their idea of honor was exclusive to men only.

The changes wrought by the Settlement were imperceivable to an untrained eye - a few less children playing in the streets, a group of boys (and a few girls) walking home in the evening hours, long after school had finished for the day, in deep discussion of some working man's theme, one less hacking cough echoing from an upper-story window. The neighborhood grew used to the sight of the Settlement's nursing residents dashing through town with their bags strapped to the back of their bicycles. Thus unencumbered, life went on, with Tommy Shelby looking after his empire and The Honorable Miss Theodora Carteret looking after hers.

It did not seem likely their paths would cross often- Tommy was not in the habit of frequenting schoolyards, or back-lane doorsteps, or the homes of the convalescent. Far easier to find him in the Garrison snug, or his uncle's yards, or his family's warehouses near the river, or, yes, the factory gates near closing time on a Friday payday to supervise the collecting of the week's betting slips from the eager factory hands. Even an emperor likes to dirty his hands watching the work every once in a while.

And it did make Tommy smile, watching old John Davvey patiently pencil in each entry as the crowd around him clamored to get their bets in before Davvey closed the book and slouched back to Shelby Brothers Limited to deposit his take and record his bettors' names. This was a good pitch, one Tommy hadn't visited in a while, being just across the street from the Birmingham Small Arms factory. The men who worked here were well paid and well informed on the comings and goings of the racing world - Tommy had good information from a legion of newspaper boys that the Racing Daily was one of the best selling papers on this street. And there was a big race meeting this weekend at Cheltenham. Yes, John Davvey's take would be a big one.

Satisfied the empire was still making money, Tommy turned the car around to skirt the outside of the sprawling BSA complex, cross the railroad tracks and take the road north back to Watery Lane. This route was not the quickest (going up the other side of the river might have been quicker) but it took him past the Labour Exchange - another stop on the irregular Imperial tour. Was the line long or short today? It was another good measure of how heavy the books were going to be with bets. A longer line meant more one and two penny flutters from the mothers of Small Heath, hoping for a bigger payout to supplement their meager housekeeping money. A short line meant that Joe Davvey's book, and the Garrison's front room, would be filled.

A short line - good. The line had been rather long of late. Unlike his brothers, who could not be bothered with a newspaper unless it was for news of the boxing ring or the times for the cinema, Tommy had recently made a habit of following current events. Wars in foreign countries meant more work for the British Army, and more orders for the BSA. Tommy was just about to increase speed and drive by the exchange when a flash of green caught his eye - a box-tricycle, distinguished from those used to peddle ice creams near the park by its paint job, was parked on the kerb half a block down from the Exchange, its wooden cover occupied by two large tea urns and several stacks of enamelware cups.

Tommy pulled the car to the side of the road, parked, and approached the tricycle with interest, making no eye-contact with the men standing idly in the back of the line. Pride was pride, after all.

"Mr Shelby, what a surprise. You're not one of our usual customers." The voice, a woman's, made him look up in surprise, only to find himself staring back at none other than Miss Theodora Carteret herself, looking quite out of place underneath her conservatively cut dark-blue hat. She wore an apron, and no coat, an odd sight on a public street, and was carrying two empty enamelware cups, which she tipped out and added, upside-down, to one of the piles. So the green conveyance belonged to the Settlement House. How interesting.

"Miss Carteret," Tommy said in reply, touching the brim of his hat with the barest of courtesies.

"I was just getting ready to head back. Can I offer you a cup of tea? It's still quite warm, I assure you."

Unsure whether he could refuse, Tommy contented himself with a brief nod. Miss Carteret grabbed a mug from the tipsiest pile, and turned the tap of the tea-urn, filling the cup with some of the darkest tea Tommy had seen since the War. "Already sweetened," she promised, handing him the cup, steam dancing off the surface. Tommy, doubtful about the cup, did not drink. He had decided that Managing Directors of Limited Liability Companies did not take tea in the street from pushcart vendors.

"You were about to ask what I'm doing here," Miss Carteret accused, pouring her own cup and wiping down the top of her ersatz counter with a rag.

"One of your many good works, I assume," Tommy said lightly. "I wouldn't have thought they allowed the Directress to do things like this." (He had been wondering what she was doing, but he wasn't about to tell her that.)

"It's not usual, no. Phoebe does the afternoon rounds, but she's got a touch of a cold this afternoon, so I ordered her to stay home and promised I'd take The Monster out." She patted the green box affectionately.

"Rounds?" Tommy asked, as if he wished her to clarify the word itself rather than its context.

"We take the bike out twice a day to various sites in town where a hot cup of tea is appreciated. The Labor Exchange is one of our stops; the Employment Insurance Office is another."

Tommy surveyed the street from underneath the peak of his cap the way a man might study the terrain of a field on which he was about to do battle. "I wasn't aware that such an enterprise was on your prospectus."

"We found a need and filled it," Miss Carteret replied succinctly, opening one of the sides of the trike and beginning to put away the tea urns and some of the cups, flinging any leftover lees in the gutter.

"At the expense of another project, I imagine." His voice was insinuating, as only he could do, that a deviation from the program he had been presented at their initial meeting was not going to be tolerated.

Theodora straightened up, eyes narrowed. "Take a good look at that line, Mr. Shelby," she declared, her voice low so as not to attract the attention of the men across the street. "The men who are standing there have been out of work for three weeks or more, waiting for a job to come up. They are here so often that Phoebe knows them all by name. Their day consists of standing in that line, waiting for the door to be opened and vacancies to be called. They often leave their homes before their wives are up, which means that, if there is any food in the house, and there probably isn't, they don't take any. So they walk here, on an empty stomach, sometimes from what seems like the other end of the city and wait all day, on an empty stomach. Then, when the office closes for the day, they walk back home for a cup of tea, probably much thinner than what I've just given you and with no milk at all, and maybe a slice of bread with dripping, and then they go to bed to do the same thing again tomorrow. On the first and fifteenth of the month the only change in their routine is that instead of waiting here, at the Exchange, they wait at the Employment Insurance office to draw their dole money. They may stop at a pub on the way home, and then the next day, after the only real sustenance of their week has been a pint of porter and the rest of the money has been turned over for the maintenance of their children, they are back standing in this line. So yes, Mr. Shelby, you are correct. It was not on our original prospectus. We found room for it."

It was the first time Tommy had seen Theodora passionate - angry, even! - when she talked about her work. On their tour she had played the matriarch of a well-oiled machine with perfection, but here, on the corner of the street with her little green bicycle, she let fly. It was a speech that had all the cadence of a well-worn battlecry, and she must have realized that her passion was getting the better of her, because she pulled herself up short, took a breath, and cleared her throat, rearranging her face while she did so as if she were choking back the rest of the speech. "I''m sorry, Mr. Shelby. That was rude of me. You didn't come down here to get shouted at."

Tommy considered this a moment, and finally chuckled. "Wouldn't have thought I'd ever hear a baronet's daughter harping about unemployment," he said, studying her face with a wry smile. She didn't seem like the type who got angry easily. A trait they shared, he thought. Could he push her a little more? "Especially Sir Bertram Carteret's daughter."

He had known the mention of her father's name alone would not frighten her. She was of that class of people who lived to be known. Her eyes lit up with anger for a moment, but she maintained her calm. "Wasn't he giving a speech just yesterday about the dole?" Tommy went on. "'Useless waste', I think the Standard said."

Yes, that's got her.

He had picked the name up while reading the Parliamentary proceedings in yesterday's paper, looking for more information on whether they had made any progress in the debate on the regulation of gambling. (They hadn't.) What they had discussed, rather, was the continuation of the Poor Laws and the future formation of some more comprehensive National Health scheme of some kind, in which the Honorable Member Sir Bertram Carteret had made some choice comments on the state of the current social systems. It had not meant much to him then, and he had merely filed it away along with the other bits and pieces of knowledge that he knew, from long practice, might someday be useful.

Tommy liked to think of himself as a tolerant sort of person - certainly he tolerated the shortcomings of his family often enough. He could even find space to tolerate the charity and rank pity of the Settlement House, when he could also find a way to make it work for him. But where he drew the line was insincerity. And as he listened to the polished, rounded words of Theodora Carteret's prepared little speech, and drew the lines between the MP's words in yesterday's evening paper and the one he had just heard, he began to wonder if she really cared at all about the work she was doing, or whether it was all just some petulant rich girl's pantomine to annoy her father. And that he would not have.  _Let me at least know honest thieves._

"My father and I don't agree on a lot of subjects," she allowed, ducking her gaze back to the cobblestones, avoiding his eyes.

"And that's why you're here, is it? To put a bee in his bonnet?" Do you stand behind your fine polished words, Miss Carteret?  _Are you here because you care about my people, or because this is what fine young ladies do? Or are you here simply because you know it will annoy your father?_

Theodora Carteret's eyes narrowed a little, her nostrils flaring as she breathed in and out, considering the cobblestones, searching for something, anything, that would signal her sincerity. "Like you put a bee in Captain Preston's bonnet, Mr. Shelby?" Her eyes met his with raw ruthlessness inside as she flung the words at his feet.  _Let that be my surety._

She might as well have pulled a knife on him, with a piece of information like that. He had gone out with his play expecting one of two answers (Yes, which was uncomplicated, and No, which was not) and she had rattled back with a third reply, less answer than challenge: If we're going to fight, then I will fight as dirty as you. Thomas Shelby worked hard to keep his enemies close and his secrets closer still, and that was one secret he did not care to have shouted in the open street.

Christ, where did they make such creatures? The forges of hell, most likely. Or the same place from whence the Almighty had pulled Aunt Polly.

He was shaken, and she knew it. She stepped in again, almost to shield him from the prying eyes of the street. "You're not the only one here who does their research, Mr. Shelby. They have quite a file on you at the War Office, all about how you won your Military Medal, and your Distinguished Conduct Medal, and how you were mentioned in dispatches. Poor Captain Preston. I'm sure he was speechless, when the man who was nearly courtmartialed for disobeying his orders went back to fish him out of no-man's land. Pity he died at the dressing station later. Or was he already dead when you brought him back? The commendation was unspecific."

 _Let us not mince words, Mr. Shelby_ , her eyes flashed fiercely.  _You and I both know this story, and I will bury you with it if I need to._

Forges of hell indeed. "War does strange things to men." He should have let her go when Aunt Polly had said she would be trouble. He should have turned his back and never given it a second thought.

"Let's not waste words, Mr. Shelby. Or pretend that you're the only one here who knows about war."

"And what would a woman like you know about France?" Tommy finally took a sip of his tea, merely for something to do, and nearly spit it out again. Here they were talking of war and suddenly there it was, in his teacup, the bitterness of overstewed leaves and the sweet flash of too much sugar and condensed milk after. Where did she learn to make tea like that?

She answered his question before the words made it past his stunned lips. "More about Belgium, really. Hazebrouck. Casualty Clearing Station Five, 1915 to 1918. So let us allow that I know enough. Enough about war and enough about you." For a while neither of them said anything. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"With the tea?" The joke slipped out by habit.

A smile. "I've heard from a lot of little birds that you're a careful man, Mr. Shelby. That you like to know who you do business with. I thought you'd appreciate the same consideration."

Tommy was still berating himself inside his head. He should have known, since that first day, and that first maddening, fierce glance, that she was cut from stronger cloth than other women.

At any rate, she didn't let him answer, going on. "As for why I'm here, it's not to annoy my father. At least," she managed, "I hope I'm not that petty." She spat the word petty like it left a bad taste. "And if you think you can frighten me off by mentioning him, you're wrong." She sighed, her gaze still fixed on him, though her eyes were softening now, her grimace disappearing. "I don't want to be your enemy, Mr. Shelby," she said finally, still considering him. "And I think you already know that you don't want to be mine."

"Remind me why," Tommy asked, suddenly feeling sour again.

"There was a lovely article in the Evening Standard about the success of my after-school programs and book clubs. You may not have gotten that far in last night's paper - it was on page five, after the article about my father's speech. They quoted several gentlemen from the Council who commented on how well the students' examination results look. One gentleman even went so far as to say that they were pleased the students were being given the opportunity to - how did he put it - to rise above the petty pleasures of the gambling den and the pub. They are crediting the Settlement with the drop in reports of juvenile crimes."

"Which does what for me, exactly?"

"Which buys you time. A month the police are pleased with their arrest statistics is a month you do not have to worry about them bothering your bookies. Or your thirteen-year old runners." Her smile dared him to disagree with her.

Tommy paused, and studied his opponent a moment, smiling when he'd finally put a name to what he saw in her face. "You disapprove of me."

She chuckled, a dark, dangerous sound. "I have no opinion whatsoever of you. I am well-paid not to." There was a note of irony in her voice that made Tommy smile. "And I honor my obligations, Mr. Shelby. Whatever they may be."

"You people and your honor," Tommy scoffed. How many idiot captains had he heard talk highly of the idea, flinging the word skyward like it was some magical invocation? How many times in France had he heard the word before a charge, and how many of them that said it had they pried off the wire afterwards?

If Theodora Carteret had a rejoinder to that, she did not give it, reserving it, perhaps, for another time and another battle. They had reached a kind of stalemate; more fighting now on the subject would be get them nowhere. She began packing up the box-trike, taking his cup and pouring out the remainder of the tea into the gutter while Tommy lit a cigarette. The silence seemed very familiar.

"You may remember that when we last met we spoke about a bus trip to the countryside - to give some of the children, and their mothers, a bit of fresh air. Anyone wishing to go has paid a penny a week per child for twelve weeks- like a holiday club chartering a bus to the races."

"A shilling a child doesn't seem quite enough to cover the cost of a bus."  _In other words, Miss Carteret, is this another request for money?_

"The rest of the money has already been funded by another one of our generous donors," Theodora assured him. "Your sister-in-law seemed to like the idea when she visited us, but... I do not think your aunt will allow her and the children to go."

Tommy caught her meaning easily enough. "Unless I give the idea my approval."

"Precisely. I mention it now because I don't think coming up with five shillings at such short notice will be quite a problem for your family as it is for others."

"My aunt does not like the idea of charity, Miss Carteret," Tommy explained. "Much like your father, she thinks it encourages sloth and robs a man of his self respect."

"And perhaps  _sometimes_  that is true."  _But not this time,_  her tone added archly.

How sure she sounded! Tommy couldn't help but laugh. "I suspect you don't have a lot of experience with other people's charity, Miss Cartertet."

"But I have had experience with other people's pity, Mr. Shelby. And they draw from the same well and taste just as bitter. At least think about letting Esme go."

"I shall take the matter under consideration," the middle Shelby son said with all the beneficence of a king on his throne.

"That is all I ask." Tea-things loaded, she locked the back of the tricycle and lead it away from the kerb. "You are, of course, welcome to come yourself, Mr. Shelby,' Miss Carteret added, pausing to look over her shoulder. "We would be glad to have you. It may surprise you to know that even directors take vacations sometimes."

Tommy touched his cap silently in acknowledgement, watching her pedal off northwards, back towards King Street and the Settlement House. Men like him didn't take vacations - the seaside or the village fair just didn't seem like a good use of his time, unless there was buisness to be done there in the buying and selling of things or the passage of information.

But perhaps a trip like this would be a good way to understand his opponent? Not just Miss Carteret, though of course Tommy saw now that he had underestimated her a little, but all of her folk. If he was to succeed on the racetracks he, like Billy Kimber, would have to cultivate a knowledge of the world around the society page set. Perhaps a trip to a country estate might help. Perhaps he just would go.

His mind was running rapidly now, turning over thoughts and possibilities and plans within plans like the well-tempered machine that four years of war and twenty odd years of life before that had honed it into. And there was something else, too, that was niggling the back of his mind, something in what Miss Carteret had said that he'd be wondering about for a good while yet.

 _Who is it that pities_ you _, Theodora Carteret_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is a question that Tommy will be wondering about for quite a while, let me tell you. Suffice it to say he hasn't quite got the market on tragic backstories cornered just yet.
> 
> Speaking of backstories, Tommy's backstory in the war is something that's very interesting to me. (I just finished re-reading Martin Gilbert's The Somme, which is a very accessible history of that battle, if anyone wants recommendations). He's got these medals he's not proud of, he's got this service he is proud of, and I thought - well, wouldn't it be interesting if Tommy Shelby the war hero got his medals for doing something unheroic like shooting a superior officer? Enter Captain Preston. And Theo knows this because Theo has friends in high places. (I've also got a half a page trying to figure out what regiment Tommy was with - I don't think it can be one of the Warwickshire Yeomanry regiments, as the script in the BBC Writer's Room suggests...)
> 
> This chapter started going in one direction and then Theo up and decided she needed to have a verbal brawl with Tommy in the middle, and I liked it too much to take it out, so there it is. I liked the idea of the two of them constantly testing each other's defenses, which is going to keep happening in the next few chapters as Tommy learns more and more about Theo.
> 
> So next chapter, the countryside! And maybe a little glimpse of Theo's big grand country house! (Which will not be played by Chatsworth, by the way. I was a little disappointed in May Carleton's digs. Really? You didn't think we wouldn't recognize the backside of Chatsworth? Are there no other historic homes in England for you to chose?)


	4. Chapter Four: Working Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy goes looking for answers on the Small Heath Settlement bus trip, and gets a few more secrets than he bargained for in the process.

Chapter 4: Scouting Party

* * *

The day of the Small Heath Settlement bus trip promised to be perfect. The sun rose on the empty lanes of Small Heath unencumbered by clouds, warm and fresh as the first day in the Garden while all over the neighborhood, families were waking up, setting in motion all the small scenes of domestic chaos that precipitate a new adventure - boots to found, hats to brushed and unflattened, buttons long forgotten re-applied to the appropriate garments, picnic hampers painstakingly packed.

Waiting in Esme and John's front room, Tommy watched the tableau with a mixture of amusement at the antics of his nieces and nephews, and muted gratitude that he had not ever felt the call to become a father. (Not that one would ever call John's attempts at being a paterfamilias the answer to a  _calling_  - John, like many young men of his class, could be more accurately described as stumbling into the business by way of a night of drinking, a pretty face, and an angry father, but he had continued stumbling along for quite a while and Tommy had to admit that his younger brother hadn't made a complete shambles of his children quite yet.)

But then, Tommy could own to more self- control than John ever could, and it was that, and that alone, that kept him from going the same way as his brother, at this moment tripping over four small children in various states of best-day-out dress as he tried to assist his wife.

There was a knock on the door, and, just before John answered it, Tommy had a sudden premonition of rain.

Aunt Polly's expression clouded over as she stepped inside and took stock of the scene. "What in God's name is this?" she asked thunderously, every syllable of her voice promising wrath worthy of the Almighty with it. Even the littlest ones ground to a halt, confused at the interruption to their morning revels.

"A picnic for the bus trip," Esme said, sounding confused that this should not be patently obvious.

The look the Shelby matriarch gave her niece might have frozen oceans. "I was asking Tommy," Polly emphasized, her gaze shooting past John's wife to the figure of her nephew, calmly lingering in the corner.

All eyes swiveled to the middle Shelby son. "Like Esme said," Tommy began. "It's a picnic for the bus trip."

Polly's next words exploded with all the deliberation of an artillery barrage."Thomas Shelby, are you out of your fucking mind?"

"There are children present!" Esme crowed in melodramatic shock, covering the ears of John's youngest with her hands - a somewhat pointless gesture, as the children present had probably heard a good deal worse in this very room.

Polly snarled and rolled her eyes at Esme's sudden distaste for bad language. "Thomas, the kitchen. Now."

Feeling it far too early to openly disagree with Polly, Thomas did as he was told and followed her to the kitchen at the extreme back of the house, letting her slam the door to afford them a modicum of privacy as John and his family waited in the front room.

With the door shut, Polly rounded on her middle nephew with barely contained rage.

"How dare you, Tommy?"

"How dare I what, Pol? Tommy asked flippantly, just for the temporary pleasure of seeing her seethe. It was still early, he had not even eaten breakfast yet, and he was in no mood to justify himself to Polly or her sense of propriety.

"Have you forgotten your name, Thomas? Well? Have you? " Tommy refused to answer. "Your name is Shelby, Thomas. Shelby! Your father wore that name, and your grandfather and his father before him. And they would spit on you if they could see what you have done to it."

"What I've done?" Thomas laughed. "I've made that name better than it ever was when they had it."

"And now you'll drag it down again," Pol prophesied darkly. "Have you no pride, Tommy? No shame? No Shelby takes another man's charity, Thomas, or his pity. And you'll take both, and from a woman besides."

"I've paid what she asked of everyone else. No one's taking a hand-out, Polly."

"But no one's going to know that, will they? It's the look of the thing. They'll see John Shelby's sons and they'll say the Shelbys have lost their pride, to be going on a thing like that."

"No, Polly, they won't!" Tommy's words blazed as much as his aunt's did, ringing with a kind of righteous anger of his own. "They'll see John's boys and they'll wonder why they didn't tell their children they could go. Because if it was good enough for the Shelby family, it's good enough for anyone! We will make it respectable, Polly! We will do that!" Tommy jabbed his finger towards the front door and the street, suggesting the bus in the streets beyond.  _Because without our approval, Theodora Carteret is_ _ **nothing**_ _,_  he wanted to say,  _and she knows that, and she will grovel at our feet for it._

 _Except she won't grovel, Tommy,_  a snide little voice reminded him.  _She wouldn't grovel for anyone._

"And what purpose will it serve, Tommy? What will that help, your respectable bus trip, eh?"

 _It will reassure them, the people who think that I have changed, who think that I have forgotten where I came from,_  he wanted to say.  _It will show me my enemies, and my enemies' people. It will show me where I am going._ "My gypsy blood wants fresh air," he said instead, in a tone that added imperiously,  _And I will speak no more on the subject._

Pol's anger abated, the line of her temper spent. She'd fought with him too many times not to know when the fight was worth forgetting. "Fine, Tommy. Have your royal nothings. But don't cry to me when it doesn't work as you say it will." She sneered, sighing as she turned towards the door. Before she turned the knob, though, she turned back, ready to fire one last parting shot.

"You're the only one of your brothers I always thought had more brains than balls. Pity you had to prove me wrong." Grievances thus aired, she opened the kitchen door and removed herself from John's front room without a word to anyone else.

The merriment that had characterized the front room had left, blown out the front door with the storm of Polly's anger. "Right, well, pack your things," Tommy said, business-like. It was no use, he judged, trying to forget it had happened. It had, and they would move on. Polly had her moods, and this was one of them, and they would ignore it, as they sometimes did. "They won't wait for you."

The picnic hamper was loaded into the back of Tommy's car and the three littlest Shelbys packed in alongside it with Esme, while Jack, the oldest, got the rare treat of riding in the front. But that still left John, loitering on the curb. "Well?" Tommy asked, gesturing to the space left on the front bench.

"Maybe Pol's right, Tommy," John said hesitantly, not daring to look his brother in the eye. "Maybe she's right." But he did not say what Pol was right about.  _Listening at doors, John? At your age?_ But Tommy wasn't going to have this argument either.

"Suit yourself," he said, reaching across his nephew's lap to pull the door shut. "They'll be back around eight."

And, leaving John on the kerb with his indecision, Tommy gave the car a crank and set off in the direction of the settlement house.

The sun was still shining at Small Heath Settlement, the excitement of the rest of the participants in the bus trip undampened by family storms. A few dozen families were loading what seemed like an endless stream of packages and baskets into the bus.  _The truest sign of the city-dweller,_ Tommy thought to himself with a lean smile.  _You'd think they were moving out, not going for a day-trip._ But perhaps that was to be expected. Most of these people had never been outside of Birmingham before; the countryside might as well have been another continent for all it held of the unknown.

It didn't take much for John's children to tumble out and join the others, outfitted in their best clothes, running rings around the bus in garishly high spirits, while several of Miss Carteret's young ladies supervised. Esme struggled for a moment with her picnic hamper until Tommy removed himself from the front seat to help her down.

"Mrs. Shelby! So pleased you could come." Miss Carteret greeted them from her position at the door to the bus. Esme smiled and bobbed her head in deferential greeting. "You may put your hamper in the back, Mrs. Shelby," the Directress offered kindly, pointing the way with a well-meant gesture of her pencil. "I didn't think she'd come," she admitted to Thomas, after Esme had moved off with the basket. "Your aunt seemed very set against it."

"Aunt Polly doesn't run everything in the family," Tommy said loftily, settling for a suitably blank and business-like expression as he surveyed the screaming children, and the knot of parents lingering just beyond the bus, the mothers chatting amiably while a few husbands, most of whom would probably be spending the day about their own business, took the same stance Tommy did, watching the comings and goings of their offspring with thin interest.

Miss Carteret nodded, watching him for a minute as though she expected him to do something.  _Leave, most likely,_ Tommy thought to himself. And that had been his plan. After Esme had been packed safely onto the bus and he had been seen to do it, he was going to drive back home and busy himself in the office for the remainder of the day, as he usually did.

But at the office there was Polly, and Tommy did not particularly fancy having to dance around her today. And there had been some truth to what he had told her, that his gypsy blood wanted fresh air. Some truth, also, in what he had told himself about his reasons for letting Esme go, about knowing his enemies.

But there was truth, too, in what Polly had said, and that troubled him.

"Mr. Shelby, did you need something?" Theodora Carteret asked. He had waited too long!

Deep in his pocket, there was a crown pressing its cool, round face insistently against his thigh.  _Before the war, when I had an important decision to make, I used to flip a coin._

Did he have time to flip it?

Did he even want to?

"I thought you might like to take the car," Thomas pronounced, no trace of his former indecision in his voice. "Can't have the Directress sharing a seat on the bus." His mind was made up.  _When Thomas Shelby says he will do a thing, then it is done._

Theodora Carteret looked at him as though she almost expected him to be joking, but he did not oblige her. "That's very kind of you," she finally acknowledged, packing away her surprise and replacing it with a slim, interested smile. "Let me make sure everyone has their maps, and we'll leave."

Giving a final glance around the street, she gave one final call for the boarding of the bus. The ladies of the settlement house, having one final meeting on the sidewalk, huddled over a map, acknowledged her with a nod, and set to the task of herding the rest of their charges into their seats. After a quick word with the driver, she was back.

"I"m ready when you are," she said, half-gesturing with the small handbag that had appeared in her left hand, the clipboard still ready in her right. "Shall we?"

Tommy nodded, finding himself again enough to open the door for her and help her into the front seat before heading around the front to start the car. Then they were off, Miss Carteret providing the navigation while Tommy drove calmly out of the city and into the country.

Tommy liked driving. It gave him time to think. When there were too many voices in the office, or too much of Aunt Polly's interference in the house, it was so mercifully easy to pack himself into the car and simply go in whatever direction he chose. Sometimes he left the noise and bustle of the inner town for the quieter streets of the suburbs, but often, his drives were simply a matter of seeing a part of Birmingham he hadn't seen before. He loved the city, with its streets and corners and smoke. Cities were predictable - they (and their occupants) operated according to certain rules, rules that Tommy, as a life-long city dweller, knew intimately. And Tommy had to admit a special regard for rules - when they suited him, of course.

The country, though - the country was different. Here everyone and everything seemed to do as it liked - the wind blew one way and the rivers ran another and the grass in the field followed it all blindly. A cow might mosey across the road with no one to mind it and a farmer, too, might mosey along and stare, wide-eyed, at the flash city dweller who crossed his path. No, there was no respect, no order out here.

Tommy had made the mistake of sharing this observation once with Johnny Dogs, on one of his infrequent trips out of town. "Ah, Tommy, and you call yourself a gypsy," Johnny Dogs had lamented with a smile.

 _The part of me that dreams is gypsy._  Polly said that sometimes. But Johnny Dogs was right - Tommy wasn't really a gypsy, and hadn't been in many years, at least not in the ways that counted among the  _Romani fowki._ His heart did not wander, or long for the  _durra drom_ , the long road.

He had not always been like this - in the long-ago days of his childhood it had been the world's greatest adventure to join his mother on a trip out to the country, to visit with her kin, with their odd words and their merrily painted wagons and their constantly expanding collection of horses and ponies and dogs. Every  _varda_ was like its own little world, a new treasure box of adventures waiting to be explored. But as he got older, the quick, sharp eyes and ears that served him so well spotting easily opened pockets and untended market stalls began to notice that the aunts put their heads together and murmured when his mother came to visit. "Too long among her husband's  _gawdji_ ways," they would say. "Not  _tatcha romani chal,_  that man." And Tommy would consider the brightly painted  _vardas,_  and balance the life he saw his aunts and uncles living against the life of his parents and his Aunt Polly, who owned flats in Small Health and still, to his  _gawdji_ -bred eyes, still acted like his aunts and uncles in the country, and wondered if being a  _tatcha romani chal,_ a True Gypsy, was worth giving up the corner stores and noise and crowded streets of Birmingham that brought him so much pleasure and security.

France had put paid to that. In France the open country was a thing you dreaded, and the long road just meant a lot of marching and a lot of sore feet and hungry stomachs afterwards. Every field might hide a machine gunner, and every tree a sniper. Tommy spent a lot of time longing for streets and omnibuses and, perhaps most of all, for people who spoke English and answered questions the first time they were asked. No, he was not a traveler at home in any country. Tommy Shelby longed for Small Heath.

 _You're only a gypsy when it suits you,_ something inside him reminded.  _When you need luck or an easy smile or a way out, then you're gypsy. But otherwise..._

"Careful," Theodora Carteret said suddenly. Tommy, quickly surveying the road, the relative position of the car, and the presence (or in this case, absence, of other drivers, was momentarily confused, and indicated so by glancing at his companion. "For a minute there I could almost see what you were thinking," she warned with a wry smile.

Tommy refrained from rolling his eyes and returned his gaze to the road. "And what was that?" he asked lightly.

"You were wondering if offering to drive me was a good idea," Miss Carteret contended. "You were wondering what people might say."

"What makes you believe I care about what other people think?" Tommy asked, more to fill time and space than a desire for the actual answer.

Theodora Carteret smiled knowledgeably. "You've supported my enterprise even when it has worked against you, and asked that you be seen to do it. You have made public gestures to associate yourself with me and my work. You wear reasonably priced suits from local tailors when you could have the best from Savile Row in London, and you make great pains to be seen spending your money in the community in which you live and work. What people think matters a great deal to you, Mr. Shelby, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you." She turned to look at him and smiled. "You never makes an movement that isn't calculated to produce a reaction, and I've spent the last half-hour trying to think of what this one is."

"Can't a man take a drive to the country without being judged?" Tommy asked, wondering, again, in earnest, if this had been a good idea.

"Not men like you, Mr. Shelby," Theodora Carteret said simply, returning her gaze to the road with a maddeningly calm smile.

"So where is it, exactly, that we're going?" Tommy asked, trying to change the subject.

"There's a town called Little Branbourne that has some excellent parkland that's very popular with picnickers. There's a field where the boys may play all the football they like without smashing anyone's windows, plenty of trees to climb and flowers to pick, plenty of shade, and a little bit of river that's not too deep." Miss Carteret smiled at the memory, clearly pleased with her choice of destinations - a choice that even Tommy had to admit sounded like a very pleasant day. If one liked that sort of thing, of course.

Suitably informed, Tommy nodded and returned his attentions to the road, and Theodora to the countryside around them, which was now almost entirely farmers' fields.

"If you look to your left just up ahead you'll see one of the local great houses,'" she warned. Tommy let his gaze off the road just as a stretch of woods opened up to a great expanse of green lawn, capped, in the distance, by the house, majestic on its hill. "That's Thornham."

"Bloody hell." The words came out even before Tommy had a chance to think about them.  _That's not a house_ **,** he thought privately to himself.  _That's a_ _ **castle.**_

Castle implied an age and grandeur that even Thornham could not admit to, but, at the same time, house was perhaps a …  _stingy_  word to use. A Jacobean expanse of rosy brickwork and towers, it looked as though it would be more at home in the age of the ruffled collar and pumpkin breeches than the current fad for short skirts and tailored suits. It was the sort of house that would prompt the question, in the bus behind them,  _What kind of family lives there?_

But that was a question he already knew the answer to, and had known for some time, since going to the library and sitting down with Burke's Peerage, and reading the entry for CARTERET: " _Sir Bertram Godfrey Carteret, 16th Bart, of Thornham, Warwickshire."_

When he'd read that page he'd imagined a house, but nothing like this even existed in Thomas Shelby's imagination. It seemed outside the realm of the real that someone - a single family! - could occupy so much space.

_And this is Theodora Carteret's home._

Tommy allowed himself a good gape at the house and then returned his eyes to the road, sneaking a glance at his companion as he did so. Theodora was in her seat looking pointedly at the road in front of them, her gaze full of studied disinterest.  _No,_ he corrected himself, realizing what was written in that gaze and allowing himself a wry smile.  _Not home. At least not any more._

 _And are you the least bit surprised? Knowing what you know about her?_ another part of his mind asked.

Thomas could only smile again at that, and continued driving until the house, and Theodora's obvious discomfort, were far out of view.

Little Branbourne was a town of the type loved by propagandists and novels of the cheap paperback variety - homes of an uncertain vintage nodded sleepily over wide streets as yet unblemished by frequent motorcar traffic, the village pub still maintained a painted sign without a name, and several interfering neighbors stuck their heads out of their windows to watch the Small Heath Settlement Bus, and its accompanying traffic, rattle through town. Thomas caught the eye, briefly, of one of the pub's regulars, blearily making his way across the street, and thanked his good luck that he hadn't been born in a place like this.

After clearing the village limits and venturing through another mile or so of quaintly walled roads and farmers' fields, they arrived at the promised picnic spot, turning off the road and trundling down a dirt path until the trees gave way to the promised field (helpfully mowed to a manageable length), the river, and the sunshine.

Tommy parked the car, allowing Theodora to let herself out of the door and greet the bus, content, for the moment, to observe the festivities rather than partake. The children tumbled off the bus like birds out of a cage, rocketing away in all kinds of directions before a single parent or chaperone could slow them down. After them came the mothers, slower and more deliberate and more than a little suspicious.  _First time most of them have seen trees this size, I shouldn't wonder,_ Tommy noted to himself. Then, of course, Miss Carteret's young ladies, gossiping quietly among themselves for a moment before putting their best teacher faces back on and chasing down the children to make sure no one drowned themselves.

Tommy stepped down from the car, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight and the glare from the grass and lighting a cigarette. Not too many men on this trip, he realized. Not too many at all.

He had thought to sit with Esme, in place of John, and play the agreeable uncle for the afternoon. But Esme had found several friends among the other mothers, and had fixed a place in the shade with her picnic basket, chattering happily and shouting, every once in a while, for someone to get down out of the trees before they broke their neck. Tommy cringed a little at the thought of having to listen to them for the rest of the day. Which meant, of course, that his options for company for the remainder of the day were a little thin.

Theodora Carteret's word echoed back at him.  _You're worried about what people might think._

 _Nonsense_ , he assured himself.  _Thomas Shelby doesn't worry. Especially about what other people think._  If he wanted to go for a drive, then he'd damn well go for a drive. And if there happened to be a woman in the car with him, people could think what they liked about it.

 _But we were speaking of lunch, Thomas,_ another part of his mind reminded him.  _Although, if you're still worrying about Theodora Carteret..._

"Are you going to join the boys for a game of football?" Miss Carteret asked from the fringes of his vision, returning from her initial survey of the various activities.

"Wasn't ever much for football," he responded, the lie easy on his tongue. "Two left feet - can hardly run and move the damn thing at the same time." She should be content with that. There were some things a man couldn't come back to - shouldn't come back to. Open fields were one thing - and football was another. How many times in camp, and during their periods of rest, had he and his men found a field and kicked around a ball just so they could remember that they were once creatures who were not always stooped and cowering, that they were men who still knew how to run and jump and shout in admiration and in joy?

No, he would not be playing football today, not even if one of John's boys came and begged.

Theodora made a small sound of acknowledgement, watching the game unfold with apparently keen interest. "I've got a spare blanket with my things, if you'd like to sit down in the shade," she offered. Tommy shook his head, perfectly content to stand and sweat against the car's fender, radiating heat in the sunshine, if it meant he could be free of Theodora Carteret and the unease she seemed so good at inspiring in him today.

He watched the game for a while with unseeing eyes, a small hill of spent cigarettes slowly forming in the grass next to him. The light shifted, swinging the shadows around under the trees and slowly pulling the temperature up, up, up, relentless with its wilting gaze. The game broke up as lunchtime was declared, and Tommy ground one last cigarette butt under his heel and finally admitted defeat, following the shadows under the trees.

Eyes adjusting to the sudden absence of the sun, Tommy squinted for a moment, trying to regain his focus and the lay of the land. There was Esme, and the children, and there were Miss Carteret's ladies, settling into their own picnic lunches, but of Miss Carteret herself there was no sign.

While he had been near the car, he had been seen to have a purpose, watching the boys with their ball. Now that he had moved, his purpose was unclear, his intention unknown. His inactivity unnerved him.

Tommy decided he needed a walk.

Lighting another cigarette, he walked between the pillars of the trees deeper into the wood. The air smelled different here, cooler and older and far away from the sunny, sweet smell of the grassy field. Under the heavy canopy of the leaves, the light, too, had changed, moving from bright summer green to darker, safer tones. Tommy's eye caught a glimpse of blue ahead of him, a flash of white, moving through the trees. Moving closer to the movement, the colors resolved themselves into a person - the absent Miss Carteret, walking purposefully away from the picnic.

 _Now, where are you off to?_ Tommy wondered, taking another draw of his cigarette and blowing it out silently and deliberately.  _And did you tell anyone where you were going?_

Should he stay, or follow? Was there any profit in it?

_There's always profit in secrets._

So he followed.

This was obviously a route that Theodora Carteret knew well - she chose her steps with care, intent on a destination as yet unknown to her pursuer. Perhaps he was a city boy at heart, but the Army had seen to it that Thomas Shelby could move soundlessly enough when he was out on patrol, whether in the shattered muddle of no-man's land or the back lanes of a French village or, yes, even an ancient, semi-silent wood.

But even a well-trained soldier makes mistakes. A branch cracked under his weight, a sharp, clean sound made all the louder by the silence of the woods around them. She turned, startled and - afraid? Tommy was surprised to see the fear inside her eyes. Theodora Carteret, afraid of something? It didn't seem possible. But she recovered well, bundling the fear behind that indifferent, posh smile of hers.

"Trying to escape?" he asked, his voice sharp and accusing.  _Let's see what she thinks of that._

She looked for a moment as though she might challenge him, but then her face turned again, the indifference dropping away a little. "Yes," Theodora admitted with a shrug. "You've found me out. I thought I would ...walk up to the house." He noticed she didn't say 'my house' or 'to Thornham.' Just 'the house', as if it were the only house for miles.  _Perhaps to her it is._  For a moment, neither said anything, the space between them shifting and restless as a breeze moved through the trees above, moving the light on the leaves beneath. "Would you… would you care to come with?" she offered.

Tommy made a show of considering for a moment, and then, with an indifferent shrug of his own, moved to her side, falling in step with her as she started moving again. She walked quickly, for a woman, a trait he hadn't noticed as much when he was following at a distance, and they covered what seemed to him a great deal of ground in a very short amount of time. The trees began thinning out, the sun getting brighter and the sky bluer until they were out from under the shelter of the leaves and Thornham itself was before them, tall and stately, brickwork gleaming rosy-red in the afternoon sun.

They stopped for a moment, considering the view. "Must have been nice, growing up in a house like that," Tommy mused, watching Theodora as he said it.

She didn't question his knowledge, only smiled a little.  _She knew I'd have found out already._ Was he really that predictable? "It only looks nice if you've never done it," she replied grimly, beginning again towards the wall that must have marked the edge of the gardens.

 _Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?_ Tommy wondered, following behind.

She found the gate and opened it with a practiced hand, swinging it wide open so that Tommy could step inside. Beyond the low-half wall of gray stone, a pattern of box hedges, carefully clipped, sprung up between carefully maintained gravel footpaths. Beyond the hedges, a terrace of the same stone overlooked the river, its banisters capped at intervals with urns.  _All this for one family,_ Tommy marveled.

Theodora caught Tommy studying the ornamental carving over the windows and sighed, taking a moment to survey the facade herself. "I could give you a tour, but it's all rather stuffy," she admitted, as though the prospect pained her.

"House isn't open to visitors at present, miss - and Sir Bertram doesn't take kindly to trespassers."

The uninvited voice had come from a nondescript mouse of a man, half-hidden by the rather large bush he was pruning. Stepping out from behind the planting, the clippers in his hand took on a rather menacing tone, along with the stony look on his face.  _He thinks we're tourists,_  Tommy realized. Not that trespassing was a crime with which he was unfamiliar, but he didn't think the local authorities would treat this quite the same way as the ones in Birmingham would.

Theodora, however, remained undaunted, smiling and turning to face the man. "Hello, Beaton. Sorry for not knocking first."

The change was immediate - smiles for frowns, and a distinct lowering of the threatening clippers. "Miss Theo! My apologies, miss - weren't expecting you today. Sir Bertram's not in, I'm afraid."

She nodded, suddenly all smiles herself. "I know, Beaton. I didn't tell anyone I was coming. Ah, Beaton, this is Mr. Shelby, my be - my friend. Mr. Shelby, this is Beaton, our...gardener." She said the last word with the sudden realization that this was one thing she had not planned on - for him to meet the help.  _Theodora Carteret, caught out?_ Tommy almost grinned. This was going to be fun.

Beaton's expression brightened a little. "Pleasure, sir," he said, bowing stiffly. "Will you come up to the house, Miss Theo? I'm sure Cook will have something on hand for you."

"Oh, no, thank you, Beaton, we've eaten lunch already. Is...is Henry about?" She glanced around the garden, as if she hoped Henry, whoever he was, might appear just as suddenly as Beaton had.

 _Who's Henry?_  Tommy hadn't read anything in Burke's Peerage about a Henry. There had been a brother, he thought, but not named Henry.  _Cousin, perhaps? Fiancé?_ Beaton's helpful face faded a little. "He might be at his lessons now, Miss. Mrs. Frances hates for him to be disturbed." A child, then.  _Her child?_ The prospect was suddenly and strangely interesting to him.  _Perhaps Theodora Carteret's past isn't quite as clean as she'd like._

Theo nodded, some of the joy gone from her own face as well. "Yes, I expect she does."

But just as she said this, a door opened at the far end of the house, admitting one small, curly-haired boy in a sailor suit and his nursemaid, elegantly clad in black. The child ran into the grassy lawn and, seeing the three of them, pointed and waved. Theodora raised her arm and waved back, her smile radiant as the boy ran as fast as his little legs could carry him, colliding with the woman and nearly knocking her backwards.

"Oh, Henry!" Miss Carteret swept the little boy up in her arms and peppered him with theatrical sounding kisses, making him laugh. "How is my big baby boy today?"

"Fine," came the squeaking little reply. "Nurse said we could have jam roly-poly for pudding tonight."

"Oh, roly-poly! My favorite. Can I come too, do you think?" Her eyes were wide and joyful.

"No, Auntie Theo!" Henry said, laughing.

"Why not?" Theodora asked with mock indignation.

"Because you'll eat it all!" Henry exclaimed, laughing at his own joke.

The whole scene was fascinating to Tommy. Here was a woman he had never seen before - not the schoolmistress, who was kind on principle, and certainly not the stern directress who spoke sternly and was no one's fool. This was a different woman entirely, a creature who loved, unashamedly.

"Now that would be very bad of me, wouldn't it?" Theodora acknowledged with a smile. She glanced, for a moment, over her shoulder, and the look in her eyes when her gaze met Tommy's told him she had nearly forgotten he was there.  _Now that's a telling thing._ In fact, Tommy had practically forgotten he  _was_  standing there, so amazed was he by such an open display of affection from the woman that he had never, until this morning, seen without her guard up. "Henry, would you like to meet someone?" she asked, turning and walking ever so slightly towards Tommy, waiting on the lawn.

At the promise of a new acquaintance, Henry buried his face in her shoulder and shook his head vigorously. "No!" he exclaimed, most of the sound getting lost in Theo's shirt.

"Oh, but I think you will like him," Theodora promised. "This is my friend Mr. Shelby. Can you not say hello?" She bounced the boy expertly on her hip, as if trying to coax a different answer out.  _Are we friends?_ Tommy wanted to ask.  _Is that the word for what we are?_

Henry's eyes darted out of Theodora's collar for a moment. "H'lo," he managed, mostly, again, to her shirt-front.

"Oh, come now, that won't do at all!" But Henry refused to budge. Theodora considered a moment and tried another line of attack. "Can I let you in on a secret? Mr. Shelby and you have something in common. You are both exceptionally fond of motorcars." Henry unburied his face to look, disbelievingly, at his aunt. "And Mr. Shelby owns  _three,"_ Theodora revealed, enunciating the three for maximum effect in a whispering tone.

"Real ones?" Henry looked amazed, and his aunt nodded with all the gravitas she could muster.

"So will you go and say hello properly?" She asked, bending down so she could return him to the ground. Armed with this new enticement to make friends, Henry extricated himself from his aunt's embrace, turned to look at Tommy and said, with the same gravitas he heard from adults in every lisping syllable, "Very pleased to meet you."

"Very pleased to meet you, Henry," Tommy said, politer than his usual children's greetings.

But continued conversation seemed doomed to failure, for at that same moment, another door was opening, and another person - blonde and slim and immaculately dressed - joined the little group on the terrace. She was young, perhaps a few years younger than Miss Carteret, and, at least to Tommy's eyes, not half as worth paying attention to. Had Arthur been present, or John, there would have been whistles, glances of easy appreciation. But all Tommy saw was a woman as easily ignored as other women - except, perhaps, by Theodora, who stood up a little straighter and clenched her fists a little tighter.

"Oh, hello, Frances," she said, her voice conversational and pleasant while every fiber of her body seemed intent on some form of bodily harm.  _No love lost here, then._

"Theo." The blonde's voice was resonant, pretty - an ornamental thing. On closer inspection, Frances seemed like the kind of woman who was regularly kept (primarily by men of this class) for their ornamental value - perfectly manicured hands, shoes that looked like they had never seen a gravel road, a perfect coiffure and a blank expression to match. Tommy guessed she didn't regularly shout above a classroom full of eight-year olds or console grieving mothers. In fact, he was willing to bet a lot of money that this Frances didn't do anything at all. "We weren't expecting you. Henry, I think that's enough fresh air for today. You should go back to lessons now."

"Shan't!" The little boy declared, and Frances' face lit up in momentary surprise that she should be so rebuked. This was clearly a woman who was used to having everyone see her side. "Want to stay with Aunt Theo!"

Theodora took firm charge of the situation before Frances could get another word in. "Henry, you should listen to your mother. Or there will be no pudding for dinner. Now, give us a kiss and go back to Nurse."

Henry looked torn, but he did as he was told, kissing Theodora's cheek and returning inside to the waiting hand of his nursemaid.

"You will spoil that boy, Theo. It's not good for him," Frances declared.

"What, laughing with him? I've not spoiled his dinner, Frances. It was just a bit of fun."

"I hardly think -"

"No, Frances," Theodora spat, "That's just your problem. You don't think."

The stern headmistress had returned, and for another moment, Tommy quite fancied they had forgotten him again, giving him the perfect opportunity to compare the two women as they stood, toe to toe, gazes locked. On the one hand, Frances, golden and glimmering and immaculate, not a hair out of place, more like a diminutive china shepherdess than a real woman, and on the other, Theodora, towering like an Amazon, dark and dangerous and strong. If he was a betting man, (and he liked to admit he was) his money would be on Theodora, in a heartbeat. Frances looked like she might put on a good show for the first few lengths, but Theodora was ready for a longer run.

Frances managed her scowl into a thin line. "I think it would be best if you and your friend didn't stay for dinner, Theo. It upsets Cook, when there's more than what I've planned for."

The Amazon sneered. "Oh, please don't trouble yourself, Frances, I wouldn't dream of upsetting your dinner plans."

And, just like that, the meeting was closed. Theodora Carteret turned and stalked away from the house, Tommy following in silent pursuit. Looking back, he could see Frances was still on the terrace, arms folded, watching them go as if she were concerned they'd sneak back when she wasn't looking.

There was a long silence as they walked away from the house, keeping company with the wind as they made their way back through the spruce plot, the needles high above their heads giving everything a gray-blue glow.

"So," Theodora said with an air of finality. "Now you've met my family."

"I see why you don't go home often." It was an honest observation on Tommy's part, and genuinely meant, though of course he delivered it with the same cutting coldness with which he addressed everything.

Theodora smiled in silent agreement. "You know, I envy you, Mr. Shelby."

Her words took Tommy by surprise. "Really," he replied with an even tone.

"Your family understands you," Theodora said, her own voice bitter with some long-remembered hurt. "And what they don't understand they let you keep." It was an odd phrase, and Tommy remained silent, taking it in.  _Does this have something to do with pity?_ He wondered to himself. "All the country houses in the world can't make up for that."

 _Fair enough_. But there were still unanswered questions fluttering around the house and the people he'd met there, questions he felt he needed answers to if he was to continue an association with this woman who seemed to dance further and further out of his understanding of her the more he learned about her and her past. "Where does Frances fit?" he asked, trying to make conversation and, with the lightest of touches, pry a little bit more of useful information out of the woman herself.

"Frances is my sister-in-law. She was married to my brother, Michael. Henry is their son."

_Not your cleverly disguised bastard, then. Well, at least that's something._

"Doesn't seem it, though, does it, from the way she acts with him?" Theodora was saying, guessing his thoughts. "She's not made of mothering material. I don't know why Michael married her, but I suppose there were stupider women in the world for him to chose. It was very quick, their engagement. They met once or twice and then suddenly they were engaged! Very fashionable to have a quick engagement with him going off to war. Frances is very keen on fashion," she added, as though she could not find anything more despicable. Tommy, remembering when Ada had been that type of girl, silently agreed. "But you seem to have escaped all that."

Tommy realized she was talking about him. "John caught it bad enough for all of us," he admitted, though he wasn't sure why he would. "One of us had to be sensible, and it wasn't going to be Arthur."

Theodora nodded wisely. "He doesn't strike me as the sensible type."

"Do I?"

The minute he had asked the question he regretted it, both because it made him seem vulnerable and because (and perhaps this was more frightening) because there was a part of him that really wanted, yearned, even, to know what she thought.  _Has my mask fooled you, Theodora Carteret?_ He earnestly wanted to know.

She stopped and studied him for a while. It was obvious that she was trying to decide what he had meant by the question, and whether she should give him the answer he wanted (What answer did he want? He wasn't even sure himself.) or the answer she believed in.

"I cannot think of a better word for you, Mr. Shelby," she decided, and, watching her smile, Tommy was not entirely sure if she meant it. "It is one of the things I admire about you."

First envy, and now admiration. Tommy wasn't sure what to do with that. In fact, he was realizing that he wasn't sure what to do with a lot of what Theodora Carteret was telling him, and the only thing he was sure of was that not knowing was making him very uncomfortable, a feeling that he hoped he could still keep to himself.

"Admiration's a cheap thing," he admitted stiffly.  _She is the enemy,_ something inside his head began repeating,  _she is the enemy and you must be on your guard with her and her great houses and her footmen and fine manners. She does not know anything about you and she cannot be allowed to know._

"Is it?" she asked.

"Admiration's...waving flags on street corners and free drinks in pubs," Tommy said dismissively, staring off into the thickening trunks of the spruces, digging in his pocket for a cigarette and his lighter. The air smelled strange here.  _Admiration's for the boys who come home clean and neat and say the right things. Admiration's what they give you when they can't be bothered to give anything else. Admiration gets you nothing._ His thumb snapped ungracefully at the mechanism of his lighter, trying to get the flame to catch.

"The thing that bothers me most about Frances," she began again, "is that she will always see the War as two things. My brother in his dress uniform, twirling her about a ballroom, and the telegram we got when he died, calling him a hero. She never saw anything else but that. You're right. Admiration is a cheap thing."

 _Now, see, she means that,_  something inside his mind registered.  _And maybe that also has something to do with pity._

"We should be getting back,"she said, checking her wristwatch and the set of the sun, lower now in the afternoon sky. "Can't let them wonder where we've been."

 _Is she laughing at me or testing me?_  Tommy wondered.

They walked for a while back towards the picnickers - from the sound of it, another football game was in progress. "You should stay back a while," Tommy offered, scanning the trees for watching eyes. Had it not been thus leaving Lizzy Starke's lodgings, looking to make sure no shadow threw out a person who might see, might know?

"No," Theodora said. "We've done nothing wrong. If we hide it, they'll think we care."

"I don't if you don't," Tommy said, thinking, all the while, of what she had said earlier about what other people thought of him.  _I will not prove her right,_  he declared to himself.

They returned from the woods casually, two people who happened to be enjoying the same space at the same time. Everyone's eyes were on the football game, and no one noticed. Tommy returned to the edge of the forest and began another cigarette, and Theodora slipped in among her ladies and cheered, loudly, at the next goal, making the others wonder if they simply hadn't been hearing her before.

The rest of the afternoon progressed smoothly enough, and as the sun sank and sank, and the children's whining grew louder, and some of the smaller children started drifting off to sleep, their mothers began the long and thankless task of packing their picnic things and loading the bus, recalling the children from the shade of the river or the football pitch, demanding that they find their toys and retrieve any lost clothes.

Eventually the bus was full, the lawn had been gone over with a fine toothed comb, and the children, sunburnt and satiated with a day out -of-doors, practically lay in their seats, some of them sleeping in the most impossible positions.

Theodora returned to Tommy's car after getting one final headcount, and they returned to the road in silence as the sun continued sinking, turning gold and red over the tops of the fields. By the time they entered the city limits, it was getting quite dark out.

There was a small knot of concerned looking fathers waiting on the steps of the Settlement House, their cigarettes glowing against the coming night. As Tommy pulled the car to the kerb, he could just see another car, parked across the street. John.  _So he survived a day without them,_ Tommy thought to himself.

One by one the children were unloaded from the bus, the mothers thanking Theodora and bullying their children into sleepily doing the same before heading home. Esme, one of the last off, looked surprised when she saw John and the car, but said nothing, a silent gaze passing between the brothers as Esme loaded the kids in. It was hard to tell what expression was on John's face, but it felt a lot like disapproval.  _So he's been listening to Polly, then._

A woman cleared her throat on the sidewalk behind him, and Tommy turned to see Theodora Carteret, waiting patiently for his attention. "Thank you, Mr. Shelby, for a very enjoyable afternoon. Your offer to drive was most appreciated."

"Happy to be of service," Tommy said.

"Will you...would you come up for a drink?" Theo asked, her voice halfway between business and hospitality. "The least I can do for services rendered."

Tommy considered thoughtfully for a moment, watching John's taillights disappear. "What will we be drinking?"

"Scotch," Theodora said promptly. Tommy considered it, the offer and the empty street and the Settlement House, quieting as the teachers bundled themselves into their rooms or off to their lodgings. He nodded once, and followed her upstairs.

Theodora Carteret's office seemed different in the dark. Different, perhaps, because of the light, or perhaps because he was here alone. She had pulled the bottle from a cabinet behind her desk and then disappeared upstairs, looking for glasses.

Tommy took the opportunity to examine her desk. Papers everywhere, folder upon folder of reports, technical manuals, statistics. Buried underneath all that, the usual paraphernalia - penholder, blotter, the in and out trays that the folders had overrun. And then there were the two picture frames - the only such frames in the room. One was obviously of Theodora, in her VAD uniform, standing behind a man who looked extraordinarily like her, except, of course, that he had captain's pips on his shoulders -  _the brother, Michael, obviously._ They looked happy together, content in their place.  _Born to rule and sacrifice, isn't that what they always said?_ The other was of a single man, also smiling at the camera with captain's pips on his coat. He had the kind of eyes that women love to lose themselves in - a poet's eyes.

There was a small noise at the door - Theodora with the glasses. He didn't bother to hide that he'd been poking around - he almost thought she'd meant to leave him so he could do just that, prove that she had nothing to hide. She laid the glasses down and poured a liberal dram in each, raising her glass to Tommy in a silent toast before drinking. The label on the bottle was a name Tommy had never heard of before, the liquor itself exquisite.  _Wouldn't like to think what this costs._ He passed it around his mouth once before swallowing, and then turned his attention back to the desk. "Your brother?" he asked. Theodora nodded. "And…" Tommy pointed to the other picture, with his half-drunk glass.

"That's David," Theodora said quietly. "Captain David Bailey-Smythe."

He considered the picture again. "Good looking bloke."

She looked like she was ready to respond, but her mouth stayed firmly shut. Tommy took another sip of his whisky. "You're wondering why I left," she asked, moving past the picture with obvious discomfort. "Why anyone in their right mind would give up all of that... for this." She gestured around to the dim office and the desk piled high with paperwork.

"It had crossed my mind."

"Your family knows what you do, Mr. Shelby. They know, and they approve of it."

 _Not always,_ he had to admit. "I would have thought they'd love it. Helping all the poor little people and all that."

She considered him and his faint sarcasm with a long, wry look. "Wiping noses and teaching times tables isn't romantic enough for them. My father wants a heroic child he can parade around at social functions. My family would much prefer I were helping orphans in Belgium or... organizing silly little garden parties to raise money for...farm implements for France. Useful help isn't in fashion." She gave another attempt at a smile. "They're still disappointed that I came back and Michael didn't. He was at Lys," she added. "A volunteer, too - 1914. Another seven stupid months and he'd have made it."

Tommy's eyes returned to his glass while he said nothing. There was a lot of that where the officer corps was concerned. What was it about the upper classes and their public school educations that made them so good at getting shot? Maybe it was that they'd never had to keep their heads down before they'd come into the trenches.  _But us, now...we were good at cowering,_ he thought triumphantly.

But Lys was 1918, and if Michael Carteret had volunteered at the beginning of the war, then maybe he had known a thing or two about keeping his head down.

 _Always more questions with this woman._ Tommy felt the burn of the whisky in his throat and eyed the bottle again, considering the gilded label. Strong stuff. He'd have to be careful, or he'd say something he'd regret later.

"Thanks for the drink," he said, tossing back the rest of his glass as if it were the cheapest bottle on the Garrison shelf. "It's good stuff, that."

"You can thank my father for it," Theodora said crisply, standing as he stood, her own glass still in hand. "Just about the only thing he's given me since I started this project, as it happens." She considered the bottle for a moment, lips pursed in the slightest of frowns. "Will you be at the meeting at Cheltenham, next month?" she asked, as if this question were the most logical thing in the world to ask after a conversation like theirs.

"I like to go to the local meetings, when it's convenient," Tommy replied coolly, wondering what she meant by such a question, since she was no devotee of the turf, and certainly not fond (whatever else she might say) about his business on it.

"You may just meet him, then," she said with a smile. "He likes to go to the races, when he's home."

Tommy nodded, considering the meeting finished. Theodora, recognizing his silence for what it was, set her glass down and escorted him downstairs, thanking him again, at the door, for driving her.

As he drove home, thoughts of what Polly would say fresh in his mind, Tommy realized that even after the trip today, after seeing her house and her family, even after the drink and the long conversation that had gone with it, Theodora Carteret had left him, once again, with more questions than answers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been my favorite chapter to write -- possibly because we finally get to see Theodora's house. (This also might explain why this chapter clocks around nineteen pages...)
> 
> For those of you wishing to visit Thornham yourselves, a quick search for Charlecote Park (also, fortunately, in Warwickshire) will give you a general sense of the house being described. I don't usually like the Jacobean style, (I'm more of a Robert Adam girl myself) but I really like Charlecote. There's some fabulous pictures out there of the house, the parklands, and the local deer population.
> 
> The Romanichal words in this chapter come from the tremendously helpful online archive of the same at the Angloromani Dictionary Project (from the University of Manchester, which has English to Romanichal and Romanichal to English search features. (http://romani.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/angloromani/dictionary.html?page=4) My sincere apologies if any of the words in this chapter are misused.
> 
> On another linguistic note, in keeping with the preferred spelling of the Scots, I have spelled whisky thusly, as they prefer it spelled.
> 
> My thanks, as always, to those of you who find the time to both read and review. It means a great deal to be praised for my hits (and appropriately chastised for my misses.)


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